The last golden gleams of the setting sun sparkled across the
translucent waters of Tampa Bay. This fading light fell upon shores
fringed with groves of oak and magnolia, whose evergreen leaves became
gradually darkened by the purple twilight.
A profound silence, broken by the occasional notes of a tree-frog, or
the flapping of the night-hawk's wings, was but the prelude to that
wonderful concert of animated nature heard only in the tropical forest.
A few moments, and the golden lines of trembling light had disappeared,
while darkness almost palpable overshadowed the scene.
Then broke forth in full chorus the nocturnal voices of the forest.
The mocking-bird, the whip-poor-will, the bittern, the bell-frog,
grasshoppers, wolves, and alligators, all joined in the harmony incident
to the hour of night, causing a din startling to the ear of a stranger.
Now and then would occur an interval of silence, which rendered the
renewal of the voices all the more observable.
During one of these pauses a cry might have been heard differing from
all the other sounds.
It was the voice of a human being, and there was one who heard it.
Making his way through the woods was a young man, dressed in half-hunter
costume, and carrying a rifle in his hand. The cry had caused him to
stop suddenly in his tracks.
After glancing cautiously around, as if endeavouring to pierce the thick
darkness, he again advanced, again came to a stop, and remained
listening. Once more came that cry, in which accents of anger were
strangely commingled with tones appealing for help.
This time the sound indicated the direction, and the listener's
resolution was at once taken.
Thrusting aside the undergrowth, and trampling under foot the tall
grass, he struck into a narrow path running parallel to the shore, and
which led in the direction whence the cry appeared to have come.
Though it was now quite dark, he seemed easily to avoid impediments,
which even in broad daylight would have been difficult to pass.
The darkness appeared no barrier to his speed, and neither the
overhanging branches, nor the wood-bine roots stayed his progress.
About a hundred paces further on, the path widened into a rift that led
to an opening, sloping gradually down to the beach.
On reaching its edge, he paused once more to listen for a renewal of the
sound.
Nothing save the familiar noises of the night greeted his ear.
After a short pause, he kept on for the water's edge, with head well
forward, and eyes strained to penetrate the gloom.
At that moment the moon shot out from behind a heavy bank of clouds,
and, with a brilliant beam, disclosed to his eager gaze a tableau of
terrible interest.
Down by the water's edge lay the body of an Indian youth, motionless,
and to all appearance dead; while stooping over it was another youth,
also an Indian. He appeared to be examining the body.
For some seconds there was no change in his attitude. Then, all at once
he raised himself erect, and with a tomahawk that flashed in the
moonlight above his head, appeared in the act of dealing a blow.
The hatchet descended; but not upon the body that lay prostrate.
A sharp report ringing on the air for an instant silenced all other
sounds. The would-be assassin sprang up almost simultaneously, and two
corpses instead of one lay along the earth.
So thought he who fired the shot, and who was the young man already
described. He stayed not to speculate, but rushed forward to the spot
where the two Indians lay. He had recognised them both. The one upon
the ground was Nelatu, the son of Oluski, a distinguished Seminole
chief. The other was Red Wolf, a well-grown youth belonging to the same
tribe.
Only glancing at the would-be assassin to see that he was dead, he bent
over the body of Nelatu, placed his hand upon the region of his heart,
at the same time anxiously scanning his features.
Suddenly he uttered an exclamation of surprise. Beneath his fingers a
weak pulsation gave signs of life. Nelatu might yet be saved.
Pulling off his hat, he ran down to the beach, filled it with water,
and, returning, sprinkled the forehead of the young Indian.
Then taking a flask containing brandy from his pouch, he poured a
portion of its contents down the throat of the unconscious youth.
These kindly offices he repeated several times, and was finally rewarded
for his pains. The blood slowly mantled Nelatu's cheek; a shivering ran
through his frame; and with a deep sigh he gazed dreamily upon his
preserver, and at the same time faintly murmured "Warren."
"Yes, Warren! Speak, Nelatu. What is the meaning of this?"
The Indian had only the strength to mutter the words "Red Wolf," at the
same time raising his hand to his side with apparent difficulty.
The gesture made his meaning clear. Warren's gaze rested upon a deep
wound from which the blood was still welling.
By the tremulous movement of his lips, Warren saw that he was
endeavouring to speak again. But no sound came from them. His eyes
gradually became closed. He had once more fainted.
Warren instantly flung off his coat, tore one of the sleeves from his
shirt, and commenced staunching the blood.
After a time it ceased to flow, and then tearing off the second sleeve,
with his braces knotted together, he bound up the wound.
The wounded youth slowly recovered consciousness, and, looking
gratefully up into his face, pressed the hand of his deliverer.
"Nelatu owes Warren life. He will some day show his gratitude."
"Don't think of that now. Tell me what has happened? I heard your cry,
and hastened to your assistance."
"Not Nelatu's cry," responded the Indian, with a faint blush of pride
suffusing his face. "Nelatu is the son of a chief. He knows how to die
without showing himself a woman. It was Red Wolf who cried out."
"Red Wolf!"
"Yes; Red Wolf is a coward--a squaw; 'twas he who cried out."
"He will never cry out again. Look there!" said Warren, pointing to the
lifeless corpse that lay near.
Nelatu had not yet seen it. Unconscious of what had transpired, he
believed that Red Wolf, supposing him dead, had gone away from the spot.
Warren explained.
Still more gratefully did the Indian youth gaze upon the face of his
preserver.
"You had an encounter with Red Wolf? I can see that, of course; it was
he who gave you this wound?"
"Yes, but I had first defeated him. I had him on the ground in my
power. I could have taken his life. It was then that, like a coward,
he called for help."
"And after?"
"I pitied and let him rise. I expected him to leave me, and go back to
the village. He feared that I might speak of his defeat to our tribe,
and for this he determined that my tongue should be for ever silent. I
was not thinking of it when he thrust me from behind. You know the
rest."
"And why the quarrel?"
"He spoke wicked words of my sister, Sansuta."
"Sansuta!" exclaimed Warren, a strange smile overshadowing his features.
"Yes; and of you."
"The dog; then he doubly deserved death. And from _me_!" he added, in a
tone not loud enough for Nelatu to hear, "what a lucky chance."
As he said this he spurned the body with his foot.